


Should Another Come Along

by Kestrel337



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Exchangelock AU Exchange 2014, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Not series 3 compliant, Other, Return, eventual OT3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-26
Updated: 2014-10-15
Packaged: 2018-02-18 20:50:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 20,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2361773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kestrel337/pseuds/Kestrel337
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written to a prompt given me by call-me-yt:</p><p>What if... John was never shot in Afghanistan? He finishes his tour, maybe gets promoted again, officially retires with full benefits and returns to London. Everything else is the same, but everyone is 4 years older and John isn't part of season 1 and 2.</p><p>I've wanted to take on a 'how they all got together' fic, so...thanks for the lovely prompt! </p><p>Currently on track to be 8 or 9 chapters</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [YoursTruly (Lyscey)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lyscey/gifts).



> I do not own these characters. I don't make any money from this, and intend no disrespect.

It was raining the day Greg finally said goodbye to Sherlock Holmes. It should have been sunny, a true spring sunshine with blue skies and a little puffing breeze, daffodils and maybe even birdsong. Something to match the upturn in his own spirit. Instead it was pissing down with a cold rain, winter’s last rearguard action against the inexorable advance of spring. He’d visited the stone faithfully every week since his friend jumped and left more questions than answers. The few times he’d considered bringing flowers, he’d heard a voice in the back of his mind scoffing at such sentiment. So he had always come empty handed, until today. He set down a cardboard carrier with two cups of coffee, then awkwardly balanced his umbrella under one arm to pull the lid off one and settle it against the stone. 

“S’pose you’d rather have had cigarettes, but it looks like I’ve kicked ‘em for good. I should thank you for that, but I won’t.” 

He’d lit one, standing outside the morgue that day. Waiting for Sherlock’s brother to identify a body that Greg had neither right nor desire to see. Hoping that there had been a mistake. That Mycroft would come out, clap his hand to Lestrade’s shoulder, and tell him that they needed to start searching the drug dens again. But Mycroft had returned and confirmed the horrific truth and Greg had choked on the smoke, barely made it around the corner to be sick in the alley. When he’d come back out there was no sign that the older -only, now- Holmes had ever been there. Lestrade never lit up again.

“Anyway.” He pointed to the steaming cup that the rain was rapidly diluting. “Coffee for you. Went all the way to that shop you liked. I won’t be coming ‘round for a bit, not like I have been. I always felt like if I didn’t none of it would have been real. But I know better now. They cleared your name back in January. So. Yeah.” He tipped his head up, listened to the rain sizzling on his umbrella. “Just one more thing.” Eyes closed, he drew a steadying breath, held it while he looked back to the stone. The words were a slow smoker’s exhale, deliberate, floating on the gust before swirling away into nothingness. “I could so easily have fallen in love with you.” Another deep breath. “And I’m sorry it didn’t happen. I’m sorry I left it too late. I hope-” He stopped, bit back the words until he knew his voice wouldn’t shake- “I hope you didn’t die wanting for love.” There was silence for a long moment, then he nodded and picked up the cup from beside the glossy stone. “I’m glad I knew you.” He saluted with the now cold and watery coffee, tipped the cup to pour it over the grave, and shoved the empty back into the carrier. For the first and only time he touched the stone, pressed his fingers to the letters that spelled out Sherlock’s name. Then he spun, deliberately putting the stone behind him, and hurried away. With his head down against the steady rain, wanting nothing more than to be someplace warm and dry, he didn’t see the smaller man until it was too late. They collided at speed, crushing Greg’s cup and sending lukewarm coffee over both of them. 

The stranger dashed across the path to where the dropped umbrella was merrily tumbling across the wet grass. When he came back he extended it to Greg, then took in his soaked sleeve. He looked down at his own coffee-spattered jacket, frowned, and then began to chuckle. “Sorry, sorry.” He held up an apologetic hand and pulled himself together. “Sorry. I’m not much good at people lately. Let me try this again, yeah?” His smile was disarming, dark blue eyes rueful and self-deprecating. He offered his hand. “John Watson. I promise I’m not a mugger, despite the impression I just gave by assaulting you.”

Greg shook his hand, offering, “Greg Lestrade. And if that was meant to be an assault, you might want to take up another line of work.” 

John smiled at that, said cryptically “There’s a thought.” He picked up the squashed cup, raised his brows a bit at the name printed on the side. “Look, can I buy you another coffee? There’s a place just up the way. Not quite as fine as what I just mangled, but warm, dry, and nearby.”

Greg looked again at the face; a bit weathered, a bit weary, but open and halfway to smiling. Blond hair, probably an attractive cut when it wasn’t plastered down by wet. He grinned. “Sure, why not?”

John turned out to be good company even if he did prefer rugby to football. He was just home from serving abroad, looking for work as a GP, and renting a flat close enough to Greg’s that they split the cab fare home. They’d exchanged numbers, agreed that John might like to check out Greg’s semi-regular football game, and parted with warm handshakes and genuine smiles. If Greg had been a superstitious man, he might have thought Sherlock was sending him a new friend. As it was, he figured the universe was an odd place but he wasn’t one to complain if someone new and interesting came along when the time was right. 

*~*

As spring rolled over into summer, Greg learned that John would order lager rather than bitter, but bitter over cider. He discovered that they both enjoyed classic Bond films, and agreed to disagree over Sean Connery being ‘dishy’. John became the football team’s unofficial medic, dispensing ice packs and bandages, calling a time-out for anyone who needed it. Anyone but himself, as it transpired.

“Where’d you learn to tackle like that, anyway? Brutal, you are.” Jenkins pretended to cringe away from John’s glare.

John dropped down on the picnic blanket that marked their ‘bench’ and Greg took the space next to him, still arguing that he’d seen the opposing player kick out when John took possession. “That didn’t look like accidental contact to me. It was deliber...bloody hell, John.” 

In rolling down his sock, John had exposed a large swelling on the inside of his calf, already beginning to purple. He probed it a bit with his fingertips, shaking his head at the anxious queries from their team-mates. “Looks worse than it is. Lower legs tend to color up over any little thing. Blood vessels are all pretty close to the surface.”

Greg dug into the first aid box and began crushing a chemical pack between his hands, then leaned over and carefully pressed the rapidly cooling pouch to the injury. “I can’t believe you let him get away with it.”

John grimaced as the cold plastic hit his skin. “This isn’t from that.” John waved his hand at the field to indicate his game-saving slide. “He clipped me at the kickoff. Why d’ya think I was so keen to get the ball off him? No way I was letting him score after that.” He glanced around at their faces, took in the incredulity and shock, and began to laugh.

Greg shook his head. “Ridiculous.” He wasn’t sure if he was talking about John’s behavior on the field, or the tingling sensation in his own chest at John’s mirth.

Through his giggles John choked out “Yeah, well, not the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever done. I invaded Afghanistan, remember? First round’s mine.” 

*~*

_Held up at work. Change of venue? -Greg_

_Inviting yourself over? Not best manners, that. -Watson_

_Better than leaving you hanging around the lobby at mine. Yours is closer. -Greg_

_Right. See you then. -Watson_

They arrived nearly simultaneously, John roaring up to the motorcycle bay just as Greg rounded the corner. The late July sunlight turned John’s hair less dirty and more blonde. Greg allowed himself a moment to appreciate the sight of John’s compact frame decked out in bike gear. Zippers, leather, heavy boots; some things never got old. “Impressive. You ever wear your gear on the pull?” 

“That would be telling.” John opened the door and gestured Greg into the building. “Look, some little monster peed on me today; I won’t feel right ‘til I’ve had a shower. There’s stuff in the fridge for spag, if you don’t mind cooking.”

Pasta and jar sauce used both available pans, and the salads had to be built in individual bowls. Good thing John was such fun to hang out with, because he sure wasn’t going to win any cookery contests. A drift of brochures was scattered over the table and Greg began to gather them up, noting their topics at first absently and then with trepidation. _Bungee Jump for Two_ , and _Skydiving Adventures:Tandem Jumps every Saturday_ seemed to be well-thumbed, _Segway Rally Course_ considerably less so. Suspicious, he looked again at the papers stuck to the front of the fridge and sure enough, there was a flyer about indoor skydiving with dates and rates scrawled over it in John’s distinctive crab-claw hand. So John was looking to have an adventure. Not so unusual in people of a certain age, or in a particular stage of life. People starting over, looking to prove that life hadn’t left them behind while they were pursuing other things. That John was looking into such escapades, that Greg found his appetite for life exhilarating, was certainly no indication that Greg Lestrade had a ‘type’. Absolutely not. No way was he going to fall for another junky, even one whose drug of choice was the slightly more socially acceptable high of an induced adrenaline rush. Besides, he was probably reading too much into the brochures that advertised experiences “for two”. John wasn’t the type to leave them lying around as some sort of coded message about changing the nature of their friendship.

*~*

Autumn blew in with storms, and John took to wearing a variety of thick jumpers. Greg refrained from so much as thinking the words ‘cute’ or ‘cosy’, and enjoyed how the cooler temperatures pinked up John’s cheeks. The cooler weather also brought new insights into his friend’s eating habits. 

“Seriously, it’s a good way to warm up. Just like stoking a furnace.” John leaned over the plate of heavily spiced lamb and inhaled deeply. Greg winced; why John needed to get quite so close was a mystery. He could smell it from the other side of the table, and what he smelled was a dish rendered inedible by an unholy combination of peppers, garlic, and ginger. 

He looked suspiciously at his own plate, chicken pieces in an orange sauce, and fragrant rice, with naan on one side. “You’re sure this is mild?”

John’s grin wasn’t lacking in sympathy, but still held a bit of mischief. “I promise. Seriously, this is the best place I’ve found for mild stuff. And I’ve been trying all of ‘em.” He pointed with his fork. “That’s mild. Mild enough even for you. Wimp.” 

“Just because I have an emotional attachment to my stomach lining...” Greg tore off a hunk of naan, tentatively scooped up some of the sauce, and took a very small bite. No searing heat exploded on his tongue, so he forked up the smallest of the chicken chunks. The flavor was different to what he usually ate, but not offensive or unpleasant. It was rich, and slightly sweet. There were spices in there, but they added depth rather than heat. He took a larger bite, scooping up some rice with the sauce. “It’s good!” He couldn’t decide which was better, the naan or the rice, so he tried each one again, this time with the chicken instead of just the sauce. 

“Chicken Makhana. But don’t think that’s all you need to know.” John warned him, “The recipe is different in every single kitchen; this one doesn’t have any chile powder. Some of them use quite a lot.” Cool temperatures weren’t the only thing to bring an attractive flush to his cheeks, although spicy food didn’t affect the tips of his ears. Interesting. 

“I thought a curry was a curry, and that they were all spicy. But this isn’t spicy at all.” 

“You are beginning to learn, Grasshopper.” The sententious tone was spoiled when John giggled into his lassi, throwing Greg into dangerous territory. It wasn’t even a very good line, certainly nothing that should have made him feel all flustered. God, he could so easily fall for this man. Not that falling for John, or admitting that he already had, was a hardship. Never the tallest man in the room, but always one of the biggest. Good looking in an ordinary sort of way; there was nothing of the peacock in him. His favorite mug read In Arduis Fidelis, which Greg had surreptitiously Googled. Faithful in Adversity, and didn’t that just say everything. They had an easy way together that felt old and comfortable, cosy like John’s silly jumpers. Once in awhile, though, Greg would catch a speculative warmth in that dark blue gaze. On those occasions the air between them felt heavy with anticipation, latent expectancy thrumming through Greg’s whole being. Thus far, there’d been no movement on either side, so the tension built and grew, each movie night and football game adding its own flavors to the whole, much like the curries they now enjoyed. Greg wondered if the final blend would be subtle and savory, or full of sharp spice. 

“Hey! Greg!” John kicked him sharply under the table. “You had the strangest smile just now. Thinking dirty thoughts?”

Shit, had he really just been romanticizing curry? Comparing their friendship- or the, please God, something more it might become- to food? Bloody hell. He had it bad. He allowed himself to reflect that he probably wouldn’t mind John’s variety of spice, and then put the whole thing firmly behind him. “Nah. It’s nothing really. Just, nobody’s gonna believe it. Me, eating curry.”

“We should get you a tee-shirt: ‘I Ate Curry, and I Liked It’.” John pulled out his phone and pointed it at Greg. “Or we could just-yeah, that’s it, hold up the fork- perfect.” He tapped a few times, and Greg felt his own phone rumble with the incoming e-mail. 

“Pics, or it didn’t happen?” 

“Something like that.” John took another bite, and Greg tried not to notice the way his tongue flicked out to lick the sauce from his lips. Wondered if the spice would make kissing him unpleasant. Maybe he should just make a move. After they left. Find a way to get John over to his place...the phone buzzed again, and Greg pulled it out of his pocket. 

“Dammit. It’s Sal, I’ve got to go in. Sorry.” 

“No problem.” John was well used to unpredictable call outs . “We’ll catch the next game, yeah? My place.” 

Greg threw some bills onto the table to cover his portion, grabbed his jacket, and headed out the door, resigned to putting off the next step until a more opportune moment.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg follows through on his decision, but complications arise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I forgot to mention that this is being beta-ed by the incomparable Longhornletters, cheerleader and brainstormer extraordinaire!

In November, the resident in the flat above John’s fell asleep while the tub was filling. It wouldn’t have been quite so disastrous had they not also sealed up the emergency outflow with cling film because they ‘wanted a better soak’. Greg felt sorry for the poor sod, but grateful too. Here, finally, was an opportunity that simply couldn’t be missed. 

“Spare room.” Greg opened the curtains to let the weak sunlight in. “I’ve been using the dresser for storage, but the top two drawers are cleared out.” He pointed to the chest at the foot of the bed. “Extra blankets, pillows.”

John dropped his duffle on the bed. “I really appreciate this. Landlord said it’ll be a week, two tops.” 

“It’s no problem. I’m glad to have you.” Greg turned away, tucked his hands in his pockets. Took them out, put them behind his back. 

John looked at him quizzically. “You sure? I appreciate the welcome mat and all, but are you sure I’m not imposing?” 

“Yes! I mean, no. I mean yes, I want you. I mean, I want you to feel my welcome mat. No, erm, I mean.” Mercifully, he ran out of breath before he was forced to strangle himself. John was looking more concerned by the moment. 

“Greg? You’re not having a stroke on me, are you?”

“NO! Sorry, sorry. Just.” Greg turned, tucked his hands in his pockets. “Thing is, see, I’ve been wondering…” he looked back, tried to meet John’s eyes, but now John had turned away and was fiddling with the zipper on his duffle. Greg’s stomach gave a little lurch. John wasn’t looking at him; he wanted John to at least be looking at him when he said this. Why wouldn’t John look at him? 

“What were you wondering?” John’s voice was soft. He didn’t look up. 

Okay, fine. Not the moment then. No problem. They had all week. No; that was too long. They had all night. A deadline would force him to get it over with. But maybe he shouldn’t say anything. If he’d read things wrong and John had to stay the full two weeks, maybe it would be better to wait. Two weeks sharing a flat after the ‘just friends’ speech was about 13 days too long. 

“Greg? What were you wondering?” 

John was looking at him again. His friend, his drinking buddy, his movie marathon partner.Those things were enough, weren’t they? Of course they were. “Dinner. There’s a new chinese-ish place I thought we could do. Have. Um, try.” Good god. Smooth, Greg, real smooth. 

“Sure. Just give me a minute here, need to plug in my phone.” 

Greg retreated to the kitchen, dug the menu out of the drawer. Had he read the signs wrong? He didn’t think so, but he’d been out of circulation for a while and didn’t exactly have a stellar track record. Maybe it would be better to wait. More cowardly, but safer. Friends, the best friendship he’d ever had, and that maybe meant something more, but maybe it didn’t and how was someone supposed to even know? 

John interrupted his reverie. “Menu? I’m starving.” 

Greg held it up, decided it was now or never. “Just one thing, first. Something I, uh, want your opinion on.” He stepped into John’s space, rested a hand on John’s shoulder, watching for a flinch, a retreat. Any sign of revulsion or denial. When none came, he tipped his head and leaned in, stopped again, waited. Brought his other hand slowly up to stroke one lightly stubbled cheek. “I was wondering what you’d think...of...well...?” 

John quirked a smile then and closed the distance between them. It wasn’t earth shaking, or even particularly good. They were both nervous, and the angle wasn’t right so they were bumping noses, and Greg’s lips were chapped where he’d been worrying them with his teeth all afternoon. They pulled apart too soon for it to be an epic first kiss, but John was still smiling. “What I think is that it’s about damn time. I was starting to think I’d got it wrong.”

“Guess not.”

“Nope. But, if you want my honest opinion…” John’s eyes crinkled with mischief.

“Always.”

“That was a rubbish kiss.”

Greg threw back his head and laughed in delighted relief. “It really was. Can I have a do-over?” 

“Lots of them. But not until after dinner; I wasn’t kidding about being hungry.” Somehow he inserted himself into the circle of Greg’s arms, grabbing the menu and holding it out so they could both see. “Hmmm...garlic, no. Unless you’ve changed your mind about spice? Didn’t think so. Beef with Broccoli for me. Split egg-rolls, or potstickers?”

Greg gave him a squeeze. “Two orders of potstickers; I do actually want some. And chicken lo-mein.” 

Greg called it in, gave his address, and retrieved a couple beers from the fridge. John reached for his, but Greg shook his head. “It’s a special occasion.” He rummaged in one of the high cabinets, came out with a pair of dusty pilsners. “I’ll just give these a wash, yeah? Go on, sit down.”

John nodded bemusedly and left him to it. Greg hummed as he ran the sink, stopped himself singing by a narrow margin of self-control, washed the glasses and rinsed them back to cold. He’d just poured when the buzzer went. 

“I’ll go.” Greg skipped his usual banter, opting instead to give the driver a generous tip. He took the stairs two at a time and was pleased to be only slightly winded when the door closed behind him. John met him in the kitchen, pale, confused, and a little angry. “What is it?” 

“There’s...they said...just, you’d better come see.”

A bombing, a sinking. Another subway attack, a plane crash. “John. Tell me.” 

“I can’t. I don’t understand.” He steered Greg to the couch, took the bags and set them aside on the coffee table. 

The telly showed a fairly standard press conference; brightly lit briefing room, flashbulbs, reporters vying for microphone position. He could see the Chief Superintendent to one side of the conference table, deep in discussion with a familiar looking young woman. The news announcer’s voice spoke over the murmurs. “It appears that the press conference is about to get underway. As a reminder, this is live from New Scotland Yard. And-yes, here comes the police representative to speak to the media. I’ll turn it over to our location crew.” 

Chief Superintendent Boyer gave the standard opening remarks, thanked everyone for their attendance and patience, explained that he would be reading a prepared statement and taking no questions. Another man slipped up to the table and Greg froze in shock at the dark coat, the blue scarf. Blinking, shaking his head, because it wasn’t possible, but the camera zoomed in and there could be no doubt: Sherlock Holmes, dead and buried these two years, had somehow returned to London. Boyer was explaining, reading steadily and refusing to raise his voice so the reporters had to lower theirs. Over the buzzing in his ears Greg heard the words _undercover,_ and _infiltrated,_ and _terrorist organization._ He heard _thwarted plot,_ and _taken into custody._ But the only word that mattered was _alive._

His next awareness was of John’s voice speaking in low tones, muffled somewhat by Greg’s own knees. “Alright, John. Okay.” He took a deep breath, didn’t stutter the exhale too badly, and squeezed John’s hand where it gripped at Greg’s fingers. The next breath was easier, and he tentatively raised his head. When that went well, he eased himself toward the upright in cautious increments. The throw from the back of the sofa was scratchy on his neck, and the television was black and silent. Greg had a moment of irrational fear that it had all been some ridiculous hallucination.

“It was real. Easy now, don’t go too fast.” The remote clattered onto the coffee table and John was pulling the blanket around Greg’s front. “Look at me, please?” John shifted from solicitous friend to businesslike medical professional. Greg looked, denied any residual dizziness, suffered his pulse to be counted, and silently drank the sweet tea John made before he dared voice his most pressing concern.

“Don’t tell anyone.” His voice was rough, and he coughed a bit before continuing, “Won’t do my reputation at the Yard any good if they know I had myself a little faint.” 

“Neurally mediated syncope.” 

“Yeah, that sounds good. What’s it mean?” 

“It means you fainted,” John told him flatly. “Although, to be fair, you didn’t entirely. Feeling more yourself?” He reached out to squeeze Greg’s hand again. 

Before he could answer, Greg’s mobile began ringing. He closed his eyes and groaned. “That’ll be Sally. Or Gregson. Possibly Dimmock.” A headache crept over the back of his neck as he reached for the phone. But John beat him to it, shutting it down and stuffing it into the coffee table drawer. 

“No. Not right now. You’ve had a shock, you’re allowed at least until tomorrow morning.”

Greg shook his head, felt the headache really beginning to dig in. “You’re right, I know you’re right.” He cursed weakly when the wall phone began to ring, gave John a grateful smile when he simply walked over and disconnected the thing. 

“You won’t have a minute’s peace once you start taking calls. Can you eat?” He accepted Greg’s head-shake and gathered up the bags from the coffee table. “Okay. I’m putting this stuff in the fridge. Put on a DVD.” 

Greg prudently shut the blinds and curtains over all the windows before setting up the DVD player. One thing about John, he never took the piss over Greg’s choice of movie. For the nights when paying attention was strictly optional, when emotions were running high and energy low, Greg preferred old school musicals for their lack of drama and absence of mystery. John came into the sitting room with yet more tea and a blister-pack of paracetamol. He held the pills back for a moment. “Are these going to upset your stomach? I could make some toast.” 

Greg shook his head and winced at the pull in his neck. “Please. Give ‘em. Someone might still get through, and I’ll need to be functional.”

“It’s a secure building, and we’ve taken the phone off. Who’d get through?”

Greg didn’t reply. John knew as well as anyone how easily security could be breached. One man in particular was distressingly capable in such matters. Would he come round? They’d been friends, before. But friends didn’t leave you to mourn them, didn’t bugger off without a word or sign, not even on some government super-spy op. Greg was cop, for God’s sake, it wasn’t like he didn’t understand the demands of deep undercover work. Why hadn’t Sherlock trusted him with the truth? The young woman at the press conference; hadn’t that been Mycroft’s P.A.? Mycroft knew, then. With his high-level security clearance, of course he did. Greg’s clearance wasn’t nearly so good, but honestly, Mycroft could have fixed that. His work record was testament to Greg’s discretion. Why hadn’t they told him? And Molly, had signed the death certificate, so she knew, too. Of course she did, Sherlock wasn’t above making use of her unrequited longings. Greg had called him out on it more than once. It was laughable to think her security clearance was higher than Greg’s, and yet she’d been in on the deception, may even have helped with the planning of it. Sherlock had gone to Molly when he needed to ‘die’. Mycroft had known his situation. Why hadn’t he trusted Greg? His circling thoughts crashed to a halt when there was a knock at the door, a pattern of taps that he’d recognize anytime, anywhere. A distinctive, playful two-knuckled ‘rappity-tap’ that he hadn’t even realized he missed until now, when he didn’t need to miss it anymore. 

“God damn reporters.” John stood up, his jaw tight and hands clenching into fists. Faithful in adversity, and prepared to defend this haven with violence. 

“Not a reporter.” It was effort to stand, to walk to the door. To acquiesce to John’s demand that he at least check the peephole, dammit. To slip the chain, turn the bolt, but finally the door was open and Sherlock was stepping into Greg’s flat, and life, again. 

He was thinner, and moved like he was in pain. His hair was freshly trimmed and slicked back for the press conference, highlighting those ridiculous cheekbones. Greg’s eyes caught on the scarlet buttonhole, vivid embroidery on the dark wool, a small and seemingly insignificant detail that brought it all home. Sherlock was here, alive, breathing, watching Greg with wary eyes and a cautious stance. Alive. Sherlock, alive. 

“You bastard,” Greg said, and pulled him in for a desperate hug. When he released him, Sherlock staggered a bit, wincing and grunting. Greg ushered him to a chair, the one John usually sat in, at the table. “You’re hurt. You didn’t look so stiff at the press conference.”

“Hmm. Pills are wearing off a bit now.” He eased himself slowly down, not leaning back but resting his elbows on the table and holding himself very still.

“So you’ve been seen, then? Someone’s had a look, fixed you up?” Sherlock’s long history of wilful self-neglect made Greg wary; pain medication was easy to get without a physician’s prescription. 

“What could be done, has been. Who’s your friend? He looks ready to finish the job.” 

John was leaning against the kitchen divide, arms crossed and eyes a raging storm. He gave Sherlock an adversarial nod, acknowledging his assessment of the situation. 

“Dr John Watson. He’s staying with me for a bit while his flat is repaired. John, this is Sherlock Holmes. He…” what to say about him? “He isn’t dead.” Greg grimaced and Sherlock snorted. John remained unmoved and unmoving. 

 

“Your friend doesn’t trust me.” 

“No. Talk. Explain. I’ll make some tea.” 

John adjusted his stance, feet shoulder width apart and hands behind his back. Greg recognized it, and clearly Sherlock did, too. John was a protector right now, guarding Greg from the threat that Sherlock represented. 

Greg expected it to take longer, but an hour later the tea was cold and the explanation had been given. It was incredible, and equal parts terrifying and infuriating that he’d been targeted while inside his office. It seemed unlikely that someone bent on random mayhem would go to the effort, but Greg made a mental note to bring it up with his superiors. He brought his hands down, smacking his thighs and breaking the staring match Sherlock had started with John. “Right. First things first. Where are you staying?”

“Baker Street. Mycroft kept the place for me, had a cleaning crew through yesterday. Mrs Hudson has been duly informed. I’m told she was quite vocal in her displeasure.” 

Greg nodded and scrubbed the back of his neck where the headache was again making itself known. “I’m glad you’re back. I am, Sherlock. Very glad. And thank you for coming here and explaining, and for doing it without bringing the press down on my head sooner than is necessary. Now, and I’m sorry to have to say this, but you need to leave.” 

The first shadow of uncertainty showed in those moonstone eyes. “You’re throwing me out?” 

“I need some time to think about this. You need some time to recover from whatever injuries you’re trying to hide.Time to get your head back in London; going undercover is hard on your mind, genius or not. We’ll talk more after...well, after.” After he’d figured out what to do. 

Sherlock stood silently, gave Greg one long, searching look, and left without another word. When he’d finished locking the door, Greg turned to John. 

“Alright, stand down. He’s gone.” Greg picked up their tea-cups, carried them to the kitchen. After a moment’s hesitation, he rinsed all three and set them in the sink. The whisky was where he’d left it after the Williams case, and he shook the bottle questioningly at John. 

“No. Not a good idea for you either, right now. From what you’ve said, your name used to be tied to his fairly often. You’ll not want to face the press with a hangover.”

Right. Greg turned and nearly dropped the bottle at John’s next question. 

“Do you want me to find somewhere else to stay?” 

“What? Why?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Because the man you thought dead is back from his heroic mission?” 

Greg’s stomach clenched and he shook his head. “You can’t be thinking...John, I thought he was _dead_. I’m glad he’s not, but that doesn’t mean...my God, I’m not even sure I know the man anymore.”

John’s eyes were infinitely sad. “Maybe not. But you’re still halfway to being in love with him.” 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A confrontation, an explanation.

John woke from uneasy sleep to the sound of footsteps in the hallway. The shower came on across the hall confirmed his worst suspicions; Greg was going in to work. He’d heard the footsteps in the sitting room all night, walking from kitchen to window and back again without stopping. John had finally fallen asleep around 3:00, lulled by the steady back-and-forth rhythm, and he very much doubted Greg had managed any sleep at all. Should he go out and make breakfast? He knew what he’d have done if the evening had gone according to plan, but what was the protocol when one’s first kiss was followed by the resurrection of the other party’s formerly deceased love interest? Should he try to defend his place as the potential new boyfriend, or step back while Greg tried to resolve the situation with Sherlock? If he went out there now and made breakfast, was the that act of a friend, or someone who wanted to be something more? What if he just made coffee, would that mean something different? 

“God, Watson. What are you? 16?” He rolled over and swung his feet over the side of the bed as the shower cut out. Of course he should go make Greg some breakfast and coffee. It’s what a friend would do for someone who’d taken the emotional bruising Greg had undergone the night before, regardless of how the relationship might or might not be evolving. He waited until he’d heard Greg’s bedroom door close, though. No sense making things more awkward than they already were. Scrambled eggs were fast, and easy on a stomach roiling with tension. If his own was in knots he could only imagine how Greg was feeling. He’d forgotten the chinese food in the fridge, though, and slammed the fridge on the thick odor that rolled out. Right. Toast was probably more appropriate anyway. Cooking suggested an intimacy that now would probably never exist. Greg came into the kitchen just as John plucked the tea bags into the trash. 

“Just tea for...oh, well, if you’ve already made it.” Greg picked up the toast, took the mug with his other hand. “Thanks.” His voice was a rough burr, thick and weighted with fatigue. “Look, I’m not...I mean. I know things have gotten a bit...weird? But I’d like you to stay. I don’t know that I want to be coming home to an empty flat right now. So, please? Stay? Spare key’s on the rack there.” Greg’s face was haggard, pale, brown eyes puffy and bloodshot from too many hours awake, his gaze inward-focused. The worry lines in his brow were deep furrows, and his breathing was carefully, tightly, controlled. Anxiety, anguish. John couldn’t abandon Greg right now.

“Of course I’ll stay, if you want me. ‘S what friends are for.”

It was an odd couple of weeks. The movies this time were nature documentaries; things to engage the brain with interesting but not particularly challenging facts, and the eyes with lovely images. Greg took to screening his calls and ordering in instead of going out. It was when he pleaded a headache and sent John to their football game alone that John realized it wasn’t the media he’d been trying to avoid. A tall figure was loitering in the middle distance, watching the team stretch and warm up. When Jenkins stepped into Greg’s usual position, the dark haired man strode angrily away. 

“Maybe you should remind him that there are laws against stalking.” Greg had rejected yet another telephone call, and John wasn’t sure who he was angrier with; Greg for not telling him or himself for not realizing. “He owes you some space.” 

“Mmm. It’d be a waste of breath; he doesn’t exactly understand boundaries.” 

“Doesn’t get the message, either, does he?” John picked up Greg’s mobile and thumbed it off, silencing yet another call. “Maybe you should go away for a bit. I bet you’ve got some time coming. It’s not healthy, just going to work and then holing up here.” 

“Yeah. Maybe. Might have an arrest soon, though.” He turned his phone back on. “Could be tonight, even.”Since Greg’s dedication to his job was one of the things John admired, he didn’t argue when the call came, or when Greg told him not to wait up. He just decided to take advantage of an early evening, and went to bed with a book, falling asleep before he’d finished the third chapter.

The sound of the front door jarred John awake, and he lay in the bed wondering why. He’d quickly adapted to Greg’s returning home at whatever hour and didn’t usually notice. But the footsteps in the kitchen were off, and there was no reason for his friend to be opening every cupboard and drawer. Someone was in the flat who oughtn’t to be. John slipped out of the bed and picked up the heavy book on the dresser top. The door opened soundlessly beneath his hand and he slid along the wall, holding the book at the ready. A quick peek to verify that the sitting room was clear, and he rounded the corner to the entry-way and the kitchen doorway. The intruder was standing with his back to John, rifling the mail that stood in an antique toast rack on one counter. John nodded to himself, hurled the book through the galley style kitchen to crash against the wall over the dining table. The other man spun toward the noise and John exploded into the kitchen, grabbing for an arm and using his own momentum to carry him to the floor. He knelt heavily with his knee on the man’s back, pressing against the back of his neck with his free hand and yanking the arm he’d grabbed up and back. 

“You’re going to want to answer very carefully. What the hell are you doing in this flat?”

“Nothing. I’m a friend. I’m…” the words broke off in a pained groan as John dug his knee down hard. 

“Wrong answer. What. Are. You. Looking. For.” With each word John brought more of his weight to bear.

The body beneath him went limp as the intruder gasped out “I’m looking for Lestrade.” Though he’d only met him once, John recognized the voice. 

“Sherlock Holmes.” John let up on the pressure, but didn’t allow him off the floor. “What the hell are you doing?” 

“Looking for Lestrade. I need to talk to him.” Sherlock flexed his spine, testing the strength of John’s hold, and hissed. Blood began to seep through the white cotton shirt, and John abruptly released his hold. Sherlock eased himself up, his hands low and out to his sides, palms facing John, and rolled his neck to release tension. A series of pops made John wince. “He won’t take my calls or answer my e-mails.”

“What’s wrong with your back?” 

“Probably popped some sutures when I was being knelt on. Why are you still here?” 

John stared, then offered him a hand. “Come on, up. You’re bleeding all over the kitchen. You can explain while I patch you up.” He pulled out a chair and turned it backwards. “Shirt off. I’ll get the first aid kit.” Greg’s wasn’t quite as complete as John’s, but ought to do the trick. He washed his hands, collected his supplies, and returned to the kitchen. Sherlock had followed his instructions, and the view of his back stopped John in his tracks. He’d been a doctor in a war zone; he recognized the signs of a vicious and systematic beating. Beneath the streaks of blood, Sherlock’s back was a green and purple mess of bruises and healing scabs. Blood was welling sluggishly from a line of stitches running up from his lower back. John took out a mixing bowl and filled it with warm water. “Right, first I need to clean this up. Might sting a bit,” he warned. “Start explaining.”

“Lestrade has been avoiding me.” 

“It didn’t occur to you that he might need more time?” A couple of other scabs had broken loose and John dabbed carefully at them. 

Sherlock sounded terribly aggrieved. “Nobody else did.” 

“By ‘nobody else’, I guess you mean ‘all the people who knew I wasn’t really dead’?” A few of the cuts were surrounded by angry red inflammation and John pressed his fingers to them. Warm, not hot. Probably not infected. 

“What difference should that make? I’ve given him almost two weeks!”

“Jesus. Do you even know what he went through, these last years?” John’s hands were gentle, in marked contrast to his voice. 

“I kept an eye on him. I scoured the newspapers whenever I could, looking for word of him.”

“I don’t think new stitches are advisable here. I’ll bandage it, but you should follow up with the person who treated it in the first place.” He folded gauze, taped it in place. “There. Anything on the front?” 

Sherlock shook his head and turned around to sit properly but still didn’t lean back. He wrinkled his nose at the stained shirt that John held up. “Are my spares still in his wardrobe?”

John moved to the kitchen to wash his hands again and put on the kettle.There was something in Sherlock’s eyes that wasn’t quite shock, but wasn’t entirely hale. Might as well take fraternization a bit further. “I haven’t been in Greg’s wardrobe to know. If not, something of his might work.” Sherlock stood slowly and dragged himself down the hallway to Greg’s room. By the time he came back, John had eggs scrambling and plates at the table. Sherlock raised an eyebrow and lowered himself into the chair. The shirt he’d selected was distressingly loose, the rolled sleeves flopping around his elbows. 

“You aren’t his boyfriend.” Sherlock was watching John, his eyes narrowed in thought. “None of your things are in his bedroom.” 

“Not his boyfriend, no.” He considered adding thanks to you, or perhaps not yet, but left both unspoken. “His friend. I needed a place to stay, Greg offered me his spare room.” He plated the eggs and set Sherlock’s portion before him. “You’re much too thin. Probably a side effect of being dead for so long.” There was a heavy silence, and then Sherlock grudgingly picked up the fork and took a bite of egg. John ate, watched, waiting patiently for the correct moment. A fractional lowering of tense shoulders, a softening in that pale face, and he started his attack. “You looked for news of him, when you were away.” 

“I did. Constantly.” 

“Mmhmm. News reports to know what he was up to, to feel connected to him in whatever way you could while undercover. Because you knew he was here, in London, doing his job and living his life. I imagine knowing that was a source of comfort now and again.”

“Eliminating the threat to his life was a motivating factor in my efforts; obviously knowledge of him being alive was satisfying.” He set his fork down with a clack and a glare.

John leaned back in his chair, crossed one ankle over his knee. “I met him less than a year ago, in the cemetery. Coming from your gravestone. Because that? Was the only thing he had left. Not news reports. Not knowing that someday he’d see you again. Just a stone, with your name on it.”

John angled his body forward now, rested his elbows on the table. “I bet there were things you wanted to tell him about, while you were away. Someone said something funny, one of the people you were watching made a silly mistake. And I imagine there were things, maybe a scent or a sound, that brought you back here. I don’t just mean recognizing that someone was wearing the same aftershave. I mean tripping your memory, actually feeling the air of London on your skin, seeing the light from a specific afternoon, hearing his voice as if he was right there beside you. Maybe it made you smile, or brought you a bit of peace, knowing those things were still here waiting for you.” 

Sherlock hummed noncommittally. John decided to take it as an affirmative. 

“You missed him, and that hurt. But each twinge of loneliness was a reminder that you’d be coming back.” He waited until Sherlock met his eyes. “All those things happened to Greg, too. But for him, each time he thought ‘better call Sherlock’ or ‘Sherlock will love this’, it was a reminder that he’d never get to tell you anything or call you in on a case ever again. When those memories stirred to life, when he turned to ask you a question and you weren’t there, it hurt him as if you’d just died all over again. You didn’t hurt him just when you pretended to die. You kept pretending, and you hurt him again, and again, and again. Deliberately.”

“I’ve explained why it was necessary.”

“Are you really that clueless? Ordinary grief is bad enough, and mourning for a suicide is a special version of hell. But it’s not the worst of it, no. When he’d finally stopped expecting you at crime scenes? Started being able to think of you and smile? When it stopped hurting him so badly he had to stop and stand still and just try to breathe through it? Then you came back and told him that every time he missed you so hard it was a physical pain, every time he struggled to forgive himself for not seeing the signs, not preventing your suicide, every time he wondered if saying the right words would have kept you alive, all of that was because you wanted it that way. Your death was fake, but his pain was real. That grief cut him to absolute pieces. You wonder that he needs time, now that he knows it was you holding the knife?” 

Sherlock went dead still, eyes closed and lips pinched tight. The slight flaring of his nostrils was the only movement for several long seconds. He drew in a deep breath, straightened his back, and pinned John with an icy look. “Stick to treating the ills of the body, Doctor Watson; you are passable at that. Psychology clearly isn’t your calling.” He stood from the table, pulling himself tall and looming over John. “If Lestrade was...hurt...by my actions, it is because he gave in to sentiment. Caring isn’t an advantage; it is a weakness, and his greatest failing.” He turned away from John and strode to the door. As he yanked it open, he looked at the floor and declared resolutely, “A failing I do not share.” He didn’t slam the door as John would have, just pulled it firmly closed behind him until the latch clicked. 

John sat in silent reflection for a moment, then nodded to himself and rose to throw the lock. “I think we both know that’s not exactly true.” There was a furtive sound from the other side of the door, but when he put his eye to the peephole he saw only shadows.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A discussion, an understanding, and an olive branch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Longhornletters is, again, indispensable as a beta.

Baker Street was as busy as anywhere else in central London. There was a steady stream of customers coming and going from the sandwich shop next door to 221, reminding John that he’d left his dinner uneaten to complete this errand of mercy. There were buzzers along the doorframe, and John punched the one for unit B and waited. And waited. After pressing it a second time he became aware of faint music from somewhere inside the building. He’d always thought the phrase ‘weeping violin’ was reserved for overwrought black and white Hollywood films; beautiful women died from broken hearts, heroic leading men going off to a war they had no chance of surviving, accompanied by heavy sobbing from an orchestra of strings. The sounds from behind the white walls were a tender and aching lament, far more melancholy in their simply sweetness than the bombastic soundtracks he’d heard in his youth. He pressed the buzzer again, then tapped with the brass knocker on the door. Soon there were footsteps, and the door was opened by a small woman in a deep purple skirt set; she smiled politely and cocked her head to one side. “If you’re here for Sherlock, he’s not taking cases right now, I’m afraid.” 

“Hi, yeah. Um, it’s not about a case, actually.” John offered his hand and explained, “John Watson. I’m a friend of Detective Inspector Lestrade. He was worried about Sherlock, asked me to come and look in…” 

“Oh! Yes, of course, come in. I’m glad someone’s come; he’s been in a state all evening. Sawing away at his violin.” John wasn’t sure it was an appropriate way to describe what he’d heard, but she continued “Of course, now he’s playing properly and it’s just heartbreaking. Well, if you’re inclined to be fanciful.” She was leading the way up to another flat, with a pair of oddly placed doors into the hallway. She tapped perfunctorily on the farthest one, then opened it and called out “Boop boop. I’ve brought you some company. D.I. Lestrade sent him over.” She gestured John into the room with a conspiratorial smile, and disappeared behind the quickly closing door.

The violin screeched into silence, and John looked toward the sound. Sherlock had wrapped a dark blue dressing gown over Greg’s shirt, making himself appear even taller and thinner, and somehow very young and vulnerable. “Doctor Watson. Have you come to offer me more of your fascinating insights into Lestrade’s state of mind?” His voice was acid, but his face was shuttered, wary. 

“No. Greg suggested I come; said you likely wouldn’t get those stitches looked at, so I ought have another look.” John was looking about the flat, taking in the victorian wallpaper- it had to be a reproduction- and the bright yellow smiley face spray painted over the couch. “Most people would’ve papered over those bullet holes. The smiley face is a nice touch, though. Whimsical.” He walked slowly across the room, thinking that the flat would be charming if not for the flotsam and jetsam scattered over every surface. Someone had invested a serious effort to make this much mess in the two weeks Sherlock had been back in London. Honestly, who needed three printers? Built in bookshelves were stuffed to overflowing, leather-bound and paperback books jumbled together with no regard to age or subject matter. A copy of Memoirs of a Bow Street Runner sat atop the London: A to Z next to a faded armchair. John kept his movements easy, loose and non-threatening, and settled comfortably into the deep seat. He dismissed the human skull as obvious attention bait, and pointed instead to two small vials sitting on the polished mantel, each with a white-filled gelatin capsule leaning against the side. “What’s in the bottles?”

Sherlock stood still for a moment, then whirled to nestle the violin into it’s case. “Caster sugar in the one. Poison in the other,” he answered. “Given me by a serial killer. Well. I say given; I picked his pockets once we’d ‘taken our medicine’. He didn’t seem to mind very much.” 

John looked again at the fireplace display. It wasn’t without a certain macabre appeal, poison and a human skull displayed as trophies of a victory understood only by a chosen few. Of all the oddments surrounding him, these playing pieces for a lethal game of chance seemed least out of place; a memento mori for the modern age. 

“I imagine Greg had something to say about that.” 

Sherlock rolled his eyes, highly affronted. Had John not known the truth of what might-have-been, he’d have assumed the relationship to be a paternal one on the basis of that adolescent indignation. 

“Said I didn’t need to risk my life to prove I was clever, that there are better ways to get ‘a kick’-” he sneered the phrase and made enormous air-quotes- “and that everybody already knew I was clever.”

“Not the man with the pills.”

“Evidently not. But the man he was working for did. The murders were just bait in an elegant trap. One that I escaped in the end.” 

John ignored the bitten off consonants, the self impressed expression. Pretended not to see how Sherlock watched him from the corner of his eye, bracing for John’s reaction. 

“So he was working for Moriarty, then.” He’d heard enough about the whole thing to figure out who would bait a trap with a serial killer. “How does someone hire a serial killer? Take out an advert, or is there a website?” John clicked an imaginary mouse, pretending to browse a menu. “Sort by method; Axe, Bludgeon...what’s a method that starts with C? All I can think of is cannon, but that’s logistically a bit difficult. Crocodile?” 

Sherlock stared, lips twitching with badly concealed amusement. “Cyanide. Obvious.”

John conceded the point. “Mm. Not obvious to me.”

“That’s because you’re an idiot. No, don’t look like that. Everyone is.” 

John wasn’t sure how that was supposed to make him feel better, but let it go since his efforts to draw the other man out were working. His phone vibrated, and he held it up. “Greg’s worried, wants to know if you’re okay. Let’s have a look.” 

“No need. I’m fine.” 

“Yeah, probably. But Greg wants me to look, he’ll feel better if I say I did, and I’m a terrible liar. It’s as easy to let me do it as to argue. Come on, up.” John stood and began adjusting the reading lamp for the best view. Sherlock came slowly to his feet and let the dressing gown fall. John waited impassively; Sherlock wasn’t his first reluctant patient. Finally he peeled the shirt off and knelt on chair. John allowed himself a bare moment to appreciate the contrast between long pale arms and dark leather, then turned his attention to the battered flesh. He started by peeking under the gauze, where things had stopped bleeding. “Looks like this was all healing up, before you tore your stitches.”

“Had them torn.” 

Well, if that wasn’t the most specious accusation John had ever heard. “You broke into a locked flat and woke me up. Forgot I used to be a soldier, didn’t you? Thought you were supposed to be a genius.” He traced the faded line circling Sherlock’s bicep.“Was this clothesline, or electrical cord? 

“Electrical cord. And I didn’t forget; it wasn’t readily apparent. Standing at parade rest isn’t uncommon in the RAMC and doctors aren’t usually sent to the front lines; far too valuable an asset.” Sherlock’s arms were crossed on the back of chair, his voice somewhat muffled where he’d tucked his forehead against them. “Fascinating contradiction. A trained killer, skilled in the healing arts.”

“Hmm, yes. Also a GP with enough trauma experience to recognize the marks of torture. Burns, whip cuts, that big one probably came from a knife...you’re lucky they left you the use of your hands. That thing you were playing was lovely.” John knew full well that a professional musician played what they were given, regardless of personal preference or mood. He also knew that Sherlock was not a professional. The somber song had been selected for personal reasons. 

“It’s called a violin,” Sherlock informed him didactically. 

“You know what I meant. Don’t be an arse.”

Sherlock was silent, and John returned to a topic upon which he’d been more forthcoming, though willingness to discuss being tortured rather than musical preferences was more than a little perverse. “The people who did this knew what they were about. You risked your life, repeatedly, and far more certainly than a blind guess on a 50/50 proposition. So the thing I’m wondering is, why let Greg believe that you’d been doing a bit of hacking, a little leg work, maybe a low-risk infiltration? Why not tell him the truth?”

“It would only upset him needlessly. He’s made his position clear. What I told him wasn’t untrue; the details don’t matter.” 

“The hell they don’t. I suspect he’d find being kept in the dark easier to swallow if he had a better understanding of the actual threat. If he’d known he was in danger right up until the end, from people who meant business.” He held up the discarded shirt so Sherlock could slide his arms into it. “You could have been killed.”

The long fingers paused on the button placket and Sherlock faced him, pinned him with a hard glance. “Yes. I expected to be. Where and when made little difference, apart from the question of surviving long enough to eliminate the threat to Lestrade. His survival was all that mattered.” 

And this was the man who, just a few short hours ago, had told John that he didn’t engage in sentiment? That caring was not an advantage? Unable to bear the weight of Sherlock’s gaze, John went to the window, staring blindly through the pane to the street below. Sherlock had lied, and intruded on a relationship barely begun. He had put his...friend... through two years of grief, then returned without any seeming remorse. Dishonest, yes, but for selfless reasons. Willing to lay down his life to ensure the safety of another. The ultimate sacrifice, that soldiers accepted as a possibility, Sherlock had embraced as a certainty. His survival did nothing to change that raw truth. Two years on the move, and maybe ‘terrorist cell’ hadn’t been strictly true but ‘infiltration’ certainly had. Deep undercover, no backup, under constant threat. Beaten, which meant captured, more than once. And now he had returned, only to be frozen out by the person he’d been protecting all along. A man whose feelings he continued to protect, unnecessarily, by staying silent or speaking only half-truths. A noble and admirable man, suffering the inevitable consequences of the only choice that had been available to him. “Greg told me once that you were a great man. He grieved that you’d never had the chance to become a good one.” 

A surprised inhalation, a soft “huuu” of air, was Sherlock’s only reply.

John watched a couple walk down the sidewalk, a mother and child leave the sandwich shop. “I think you’ve been a good man all along. Greg deserves to know the truth.” Sherlock deserved for Greg to know the truth. “If it’s still too fresh, if you can’t talk about it -and God knows I get that- I’ll help as much as I can. But it’d be better coming from you, if you can manage. I’ll talk to Greg, see if I can bring him around to at least listen. In the meantime, um. If you need someone to. You know. Talk to. Be around. Whatever.” There was a jar of pencils on the desk, an empty notebook beside them. John quickly scratched down his number, debated leaving his address, added it. “Look, there’s my number. Things get rough, you can call me.” The flat was silent but for John’s footsteps as he walked to the door. 

“Melodie.”

“What?” He hadn’t wanted to look back. Didn’t want to see the hope dawning in Sherlock’s blue-green eyes. Wanted some time, to reconcile his new understanding of the man.

“The music. Melodie, from _Orfeo ed Eurydice_. By Christoph Willibald von Gluck.” 

John nodded silently, and left without saying anything more.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some experiments, and a case.

Lestrade’s continuing rejection left Sherlock itchy and restless, fighting the drag of low-level but constant anxiety, desperately seeking some, preferably non-chemical, relief. Deductions it was, then, and he started with the newest person in his orbit. Breaking into the flat and building a profile of John started as a distraction but soon became an obsession. John had shouted at first, but Sherlock had kept coming and finally John had thrown up his hands and said he wasn’t to be woken up unless Sherlock wanted another bruising. Taking that as informed consent, Sherlock launched a series of experiments to determine exactly where the lines were drawn. How far could John be pushed before he gave in and drove Sherlock away? 

Rifling John’s wardrobe wasn’t even a point of contention. John just sighed and insisted things be put back. Properly, mind. There was an order to it. A plebeian order, Sherlock’s method would be much more efficient, but John wasn’t interested in that. His wardrobe, his system, and did Sherlock know of a place to get good chile rellenos? 

Indexing John’s socks got a sarcastic suggestion about learning a foreign language, Silbo Gomero perhaps. When Sherlock pointed out that it was useless outside of Gomero, John smiled. A real smile, one that lit up his heterochromic eyes, softened his face, and filled Sherlock with the absurd desire to make John smile more frequently.

Reading the events of John’s day from his posture and attire was admired and praised, but when Sherlock tried it out on the adulterer who lived upstairs, John shut him down with a well-timed glare. Although this response fell within the parameters of his experiment, Sherlock immediately decided that John’s glares were to be avoided. But learning more about the man was imperative, if only to keep his brain from spinning out of control until his private cases picked up.

Getting into the building remained child’s play. People complained about doors that swung shut too quickly, catching slow feet or dangling bags, so landlords adjusted them such that sneaking in behind a resident was simplicity itself. Nothing in the common areas invited loitering. Where more upscale buildings might have benches and plants, here there was just a rank of mailboxes and a lift. Likewise, the hallways were narrow and dimly lit, less an architectural feature and more a utilitarian access point for the individual units. He’d encountered another resident only once before, and she’d held the lift for him. People saw what they expected to see; the building had a buzzer, therefore Sherlock must have been buzzed in. The only real obstacle was the locked door, where picking the lock took an unprecedented 57 seconds owing to sticky pins. Humidity? No higher than the last few times. Wear damage, then. Sherlock disdained the use of a pick-gun or bump-key, but repeated manual pickings would eventually wear things down. He probably should stop breaking into John’s flat. Accepting a spare key wasn’t getting involved if it was done to prevent property damage. The next time John offered, he’d agree. 

John kept his flat military-tidy, which might have confounded a less observant (or more considerate) intruder. Dishwasher stacked, sink wiped down, dishcloth rinsed and draped neatly over the sink divide. But the paper that had wrapped the bacon was still in the kitchen bin, along with an egg shell and three tea bags, which marked a change from the yogurt and grapefruit of last week. The sitting room window had been left open, nearly eliminating the smell of burnt rubber. Ah, faint smudges on the carpet pointed to a broken hoover belt. He dropped his coat across the sofa and told himself that turning on the television was simply a good way to cover any suspicious noises he might inadvertently make. Nobody broke into a place to watch daytime television, so obviously if the television was on there couldn’t be a burglar. The entertainment area had recently been dusted, but there were other ways to glean information here. Sitting cross legged on the floor, he began pulling things off the shelf and lost himself in the analysis of John’s entertainment preferences. 

John’s collection consisted mostly of action movies and thrillers, rounded out a bit with classics like _Hush, Hush, Sweet Charlotte_. The second row, though, held _Fry and Laurie_ , _My Family_ and _The Vicar of Dibley_. He turned his attention to the CDs, counting himself lucky that John appeared to favor physical copies. A nearly pristine CD of _Orfeo ed Eurydice_ , so new that the case still bore traces of adhesive from the theft-resistant tape. It was the only classical recording, surrounded by blues, jazz, (ugh), some audio books, and...Tangerine Dream? Dammit, why was the man so hard to pin down? The sound of John’s motorbike coming through the open window broke into his thoughts, and he frowned at the clock. John shouldn’t have been home for another hour, or thereabouts. Well, he’d be upstairs soon enough. No point speculating in advance of data. No point acknowledging the little thrill of anticipation that threaded through his veins, either. Chemistry, nothing more. Easily dismissed.

Sherlock absently checked his watch at the sound of John’s key sliding home. How badly damaged was the lock? Were picks faster than the key at this point? There were a few abortive clacks as the lock failed to turn, an indecipherable mutter and a distinctly unpleasant scraping when the key was withdrawn. Silence for several seconds. Was John ‘warming the metal’ by rubbing it against his thigh or breathing on it? Ridiculous, the things some people thought would correct a purely mechanical fault. The next attempt was much more forceful, an abrupt insertion followed by a rapid-fire series of clicks that gave no result. Finally, John began the gentle attempts that Sherlock could have told him would get better results. Tiny noises; John was feathering the key back and forth, wriggling it against the tumblers and feeling for the ‘catch’. And, yes, the lock yielded, eventually if not readily. John sighed resignedly when he saw Sherlock in the sitting room. 

“You know, I did offer you a key. You could just accept it. Do what most folks do and call me, on my phone, and tell me you’re coming over.” 

“Boring.”

“And getting arrested isn’t? What am I saying, of course it’s not. Wouldn’t even hurt your reputation. People love a bad boy. Landlords don’t love replacing broken locks though, and it’s not like you need the practice. What’re you doing there?” He waved toward the jumble of jewel and amaray cases. 

“Cataloguing. Rather eclectic collections, even discounting the chick-flicks you keep for when your sister is trying to sober up.” 

“I think that remark falls under the ‘Harry’s off limits’ agreement. And I expect you to put those back.” John dropped his jacket over the hook next to the door, set his helmet on the shelf above. 

Sherlock started closing cases and slotting them back into their spots. John wasn’t fun when he was annoyed. “You’re home early. Frustrated, too.” Bored, actually, but John had already expressed his opinion on that adjective. Only boring people get bored, indeed. John was far from boring, but Sherlock could read the ennui in his pinched eyes and slumping shoulders. “What happened?” 

“Nothing happened. They didn’t need me; cut me loose just before lunchtime.” John shrugged in grim resignation. “Just the way it goes sometimes. Nice enough day for a ride, so that’s what I did. I’m going to change. You here for a reason or were you just lonely?” 

Sherlock sneered at the idea that he’d desired company, deliberately put My Big Fat Greek Wedding into the case for The Bourne Identity. John probably wouldn’t notice the switch for at least a month. “Lestrade still won’t answer my calls. Even now that he knows he won’t be working with me.” Scotland Yard had declined to let Sherlock return to his consultancy, in spite of his promise to follow proper procedure, get the required trainings, fill out the damn paperwork. “I thought telling him everything was meant to help.” His tone was aggrieved as he raised his voice to be heard through the flimsy bedroom door. John hadn’t shut it quite all the way. Would walking into the bedroom to continue their conversation be irritant, or offense? The question was shelved for later when his phone chirped with a promising text from the only case he’d been offered since his return. He’d assumed the missing teenager was just another runaway, asked a couple of his network to find her and send her home before she became a statistic. But now she’d been found, in a place she shouldn’t have been and in company she shouldn’t have been keeping. Exciting...and perhaps fodder for an experiment of a different sort. Was risk-taking enough, or was an actual physical confrontation required? John was fascinating always, but the night he’d taken Sherlock to the ground as a supposed house-breaker, he’d practically glowed with purpose and vitality. If this went really well, Sherlock might even get a chance to watch him in action; being on the receiving end of his assault had made it impossible to form an impression of his skills beyond ‘extremely competent’. He quickly entered a reply and was hitting ‘send’ when John emerged from the bedroom. He’d changed clothes and brushed his hair, the routine of a man fulfilled by his work and ready to relax in the comfort of his home. The sigh he loosed, however, spoke more of dissatisfaction than contentment. Looking at him gave Sherlock an odd squeezing sensation in his chest; his jumper was the one he’d been wearing the night of the press conference, the night of The Return. The night Lestrade kicked Sherlock out of his home. Out of his life, maybe. 

“He’s not kicking you out of his life.” And there was another conundrum: John was amazingly adept at reading people, at knowing what to say or when to say nothing at all. “He just-”.

“Needs some time. Yes. So you’ve both said.” 

John was sitting in his armchair, head thrown back and stocking feet pressed sole to sole in front of him. He sighed again, looked at the plain white walls, beige carpet, flat-pack furnishings. No wonder he was bored. “Look, you want to get out of here? Go get something to eat, or something?” 

Sherlock tried out an inviting grin; probably didn’t quite pull it off, given the distrustful way John was looking at him. He held up his phone. “I’ve got something better. Missing teenager, just been spotted at a warehouse. Want to check it out?”

“You want me to come on a case with you? Why?”

“Because I’m bored and you’re restless. Could be dangerous,” he added, with a challenging smirk. “Coming?” 

“Oh, God, yes.” 

*~*

Narrow alleys between brick walls. Looming shadows, the early dark of a November evening, heavy silence. The likely presence of criminal activity. Sherlock was completely in his element. John followed willingly behind, keeping silent and hugging the shadows; the way his eyes tracked along the rooflines made his military training the most obvious thing about him. Another layer revealed, and Sherlock suspected there were yet more hidden beneath the black jacket. No wonder Lestrade was smitten. A flash of light caught both their attention, John pressing back harder against the wall before scurrying to Sherlock’s side where he’d crouched on a loading dock, peering into the darkness. Sherlock nearly expected him to start communicating with hand signals, so smoothly and silently did he cross the space. 

“Jimmy said he saw Svetlana being carried through the door just there.” Sherlock pointed to the show-room style door about 40 feet along the wall. The brief flare of light had come through the glass, illuminating the three steps leading up from the car park. When Sherlock rose, preparatory to slipping along the wall to check the source of the light, John grabbed at his pant leg. 

“Wait.” He hissed the command almost soundlessly, and his head bobbed as he counted out another two minutes before gesturing that they could proceed. If Sherlock hadn’t glanced behind him as he crept along, he’d not have known John was following in his wake, bright eyes roving everywhere, alert and vibrating with potential violence. Sherlock peered into a window. Yes, Svetlana was there. So were about seven other children of varying age. Shit. This wasn’t going to be the quick grab-and-go he’d expected. Police would be involved, which meant he couldn’t be. Not that he cared about being persona non grata at Scotland Yard, but he didn’t want to add to Lestrade’s ire. Before he could gesture for John to retreat, there was a clashing of gears from behind them, and a white transit van turned into the drive, reversed, and began backing into the loading dock they had recently abandoned.

“Human traffickers, looks like. They’re shifting the cargo now. We can’t let them do that.” 

John nodded tightly and asked, “You have a plan?”.

No. He’d have to improvise, but John didn’t need to know that; things rarely went well when everyone was making it up as they went along. A tall man, grey hair pulled back into a lank ponytail at the back of his neck, slammed the truck door and jumped up onto the loading dock. He offered a hand to a younger man who was wearing a hideous fluorescent orange puffer-vest, then unceremoniously dragged the van door open. Time was running out; Sherlock needed to make a decision. “I’ll disable the van. If you let the kids out, they can call 999. It’ll look like bad luck for the kidnappers, and a lucky escape for the kids.” 

Before he could say anything more, pony-tail began rolling up the warehouse door, ordering day-glo to come help with the cargo. Sherlock hurried in a crouching run toward the van. The engine had been shut off, which probably meant they had some time but also increased the risk of a noise alerting them to Sherlock’s presence. A glance into the cab showed the keys still in the ignition. As soon as he opened the door, the idiot alarm began dinging, but yanking the keys from the ignition silenced the chime, and he slipped out and began pushing the door slowly closed. On a burst of inspiration he also toggled the lock button, then drifted into the shadows alongside the warehouse to wait for John. He heard voices, and risked a look. Day-glo was leading a teenager into the van, the girl stumbling drunkenly in his wake. Drugged, probably, to keep her pliant without risking too much physical damage. Pony-tail came behind, carrying the unconscious body of someone significantly younger. A steady back-and-forth parade saw nearly everyone loaded, and Sherlock huffed impatiently. What was taking John so long? Raised voices in the warehouse gave him a few seconds of warning, then there was the sound of running feet.

“Fuck!” Pony-tail cursed when he the door didn’t yield to his desperate yanking, and raced down Sherlock’s alley. Sherlock jumped out to confront him, knees bent and arms spread wide, watching the man for shifting balance rather than flickering eyes. He’d have been better served to watch both; the eyes might have warned him before rough hands grabbed him from behind, yanking him off balance and flinging him against the brick wall. Of course, he chastised himself. Three, maybe four of them. They’d seen the flash of light; he should have known that meant someone was waiting inside. 

“Get in the van! Go!” The burly third man was waving frantically at his partner.

“It’s locked!”

They turned as one, about to race back into the warehouse, and Sherlock stepped quickly away from the wall. John was still inside, presumably with day-glo, and three against one was too many, even if the one was trained in hand-to-hand combat. 

“Looking for these?” He rattled the keys tauntingly before tossing them hard into the darkness over his shoulder. Mission accomplished; they turned toward him and he grinned viciously. Big, yes, but slow, and probably not familiar with Bartitsu. He lost his concentration when a small blond figure raced around the corner of the building, distracting him enough for Burly to rush forward and plow his shoulder into Sherlock’s solar-plexus, sending him crashing down and slamming his head against the pavement. He heard John shouting, and then Burly was yanked away by one shoulder, spun around, and dropped to the ground with a vicious roundhouse punch. 

“You okay? Cops’re on their way.” John leaned over, got Sherlock’s arm over his jumper clad shoulder, and heaved him up, supporting his taller frame and helping him stumble away from the scene. 

“They’ll get away!” 

“Not likely. They’ll keep until the police arrive, and you can NOT be involved.” Distant sirens corroborated his urgency.

Protected as he was by a layer of wool, Sherlock shouldn’t have felt the December air so keenly when, several blocks away from the warehouse, John finally released his hold on Sherlock’s waist.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock makes a suggestion.

Sherlock had always hated maudlin and sentimental displays. In the past he’d avoided them through the simple expediency of never visiting any park with flowering cherry trees, circulating amongst his homeless network for two weeks in mid-February, and not leaving the flat at all for most of December. This year, though, he’d been forced into functional seclusion in the first weeks of November, due to his banishment from Scotland Yard. His frequent visits to John Watson’s flat, though limited in scope, had been surprisingly interesting. John’s equanimity was soothing, and the boundaries he placed on their... friendship… were grounding. The yearning that struck as the winter solstice approached took him completely by surprise. Restless energy sparked along his veins, goading him toward noise and activity, but his limbs were unresponsive, leaden. His heart lifted when Mrs Hudson appeared with tea or ‘nibbles’, which he accepted and then viciously assailed her with observations and deductions that he knew were hurtful and inappropriate. She stood in his kitchen, mouth pursed and hands on hips, silently scolding until he quailed and collapsed dramatically onto the sofa. She ignored his theatrics, setting a filled cup on the coffee table and sitting, uninvited, on the chair beside his head. For a moment he was afraid she’d try to touch him, braced himself to snarl and fume, but the creaking wood and whispering slide of hose rubbing together said she’d sat back and crossed her ankles. 

“Sherlock.” 

He tensed when he heard tea being poured. Another cup? She was planning to stay for awhile, then. He pulled his knees up tighter, burrowed his head under the throw cushion, half hoping she’d snatch it away. Then he could snarl and snap, and she’d go away. 

“Do you know what the hardest thing was, when my husband was found out?” She spoke slowly, as if reminiscing to herself, but gave it away by speaking louder when he pulled the pillow more tightly against his ear. “The hardest thing was losing all the friends I’d had before. I think I always knew the marriage wouldn’t last, but I’d hoped they’d still be there when it finally fell apart. But of course, that was before I knew what sort of people they were. And then, there I was, in that horrible hotel- do you remember that metallic wallpaper, dear? Ghastly.- in that horrible hotel, and I was all alone.” She paused to eat one of his biscuits. “I thought I would go mad from the loneliness, but of course that just made me feel worse. What was I thinking, missing people who were involved in so many awful things? But I had gotten so used to being around people that when I wasn’t, when it was quiet and there was nobody to talk to, I just couldn’t stand it. I didn’t miss the business, of course, not after I knew what it was, but I did miss being busy. Being part of the crowd, I suppose.”

“Mrs Hudson, is there a point to this?” He rolled over, eyebrows raised derisively. 

“No, I suppose not. Only that you’ve been fairly isolated lately, and I don’t think it’s good for you. You need to go out.” She ignored his irritated snort and collected up the tea tray. “I’ll just take this away since you don’t want any.” 

He stayed on the sofa, listening to the muffled sounds from the street, from Mrs Hudson’s radio. The silence from his phone. He’d tried movie night with Lestrade and John, and that had been an instructive evening. Lestrade, in John’s company, was relaxed and open, smiling, cracking jokes, laughingly making a game out of stealing the last portion of all the appetizers. That mischievous smile had caught Sherlock’s attention disproportionately. He’d already memorized the changes, the new lines and encroaching silver, so why did he feel compelled to watch the expressions that crossed the familiar features? What was it, that made him feel so fulfilled when these two were enjoying each others’ company? When Lestrade smiled across the room...at John. And John had smiled back, not with the incandescent grin from their night at the warehouse but with a peculiar head tilt and leaning slightly forward. Anticipatory, but not predatory. It was an expression he’d only ever seen when John and Lestrade were together; it seemed there was a smile for Lestrade alone, just as there was one just for Sherlock. Which meant...well. An interesting hypothesis. More data was needed. Mrs Hudson was right; he needed to go out.

_Would it be convenient to meet me after work? -SH_

_Suppose so. Where? -Lestrade_

_Suffragettes Memorial, 5:30. Someone I want you to meet. -SH_

Sherlock never let on, but an important factor in his success was willingness and ability to make use of information from unconventional resources. Often cases hinged on information received from the invisible street dwellers of London; contacts that the more official investigators tended to regard as untrustworthy. If all a person had left was a scrap of dignity, tearing that away in your treatment of them was unlikely to build amity. Sherlock, however, passed no judgement on those who lived rough through chance or choice, so they shared their knowledge freely. Once the information was available, the connections practically made themselves, and he passed them along to the police when it was appropriate, or used them to sort things out himself when it wasn’t. Now that he was neither wanted nor needed as the middle man, it was time to make some introductions. If it was also an opportunity to air his idea, well, so much the better.

~*~

The carved scroll was a shadow to their left, the evening traffic on Broadway grumbling somewhere in front of them. Sherlock handed a wrapped serving of fish-and-chips to Leticia, pulling the plastic packets of vinegar and tartar sauce from his copious pockets. Another thing that separated him from so many officers was his understanding of currency outside the expected. “Thanks for this. Got a job now an’ all, but the pay doesn’t go far.” She took the food, then added with a frown, “Coppers ‘n me, we don’t get along so good.” 

“Meeting here ensures that he won’t know where you live. At least meet with him. You’re free to say no, if it isn’t comfortable.” As if anyone would be uncomfortable in Lestrade’s company. Well, anyone not afoul of the law.

Lestrade was coming up the sidewalk when Leticia treated the chips; he wrinkled his nose at the sharp malty scent. “Alright, I’m here. What’s up?” His voice was gravelly from disuse. Paperwork? Yes, probably; his eyes were tired, too. 

Sherlock gestured toward Leticia . “This is Leticia . Leticia, my friend, Detective Inspector Lestrade.” 

“Nice to meet you, Leticia.” Lestrade settled for a nod, rather than a handshake, as Leticia ’s hands were busy.

“Nah. Call me Lettie. Ever’one else does, ‘cept his nibs.” She waved a chip dismissively toward Sherlock, ignoring his affronted glare. “Good to meet you, too. Sherlock, he says you’re one of the good ‘uns, won’t give me no hassle ‘bout where an’ how I’m livin’, and might have some work now an’ again. Say’s it’s just like he used to do with us, but you lot won’t let ‘im anymore, so’s we gotta talk right to you.” 

Lestrade settled at the other end of the bench, leaned forward over his knees and looked across the dark lawn. “It’s true enough I can’t have his help. Wish I could, frankly. Miss seeing him around.” He cast a sideways glance toward the adjacent bench where Sherlock was pretending not to listen. “I’d be glad to have your assistance, if we can come to an agreement. Gotta warn you, I probably don’t have his budget.” 

Sherlock sat very straight on the bench, hands pressed to his thighs, while they discussed things. It was no surprise that Leticia had warmed to the man so instantly. Lestrade could inspire trust in a manner Sherlock had never encountered in another, until John Watson. He could see how they fit so well together; both kind-hearted, with a core of inflexible loyalty, honor, and dedication to their calling. On the other bench, Lestrade and Leticia had reached an amicable arrangement; they were shaking hands and Leticia was actually smiling, even if Lestrade wasn’t. Sherlock waited until she’d vanished into the shadows. “That seemed to go well. There are a few other people you should meet. Thursday? I’ll need some time to make arrangements.” 

“Sure. Appreciate it. Got a question, though.” He looked at the ground, tucked his hands into his pockets. “What’s this all about, really?” 

“I...damaged your career trajectory. I would like to repair that damage.You are permitted to socialize with me outside of work, and I introduced you to a friend, so there is no strain on your professional standing.”

Lestrade tipped his head, gazed at Sherlock from under his brows at the flimsy excuse. But then he relented, and there was the fond smile that was Sherlock’s alone. “Clever, arranging a clandestine meeting after hours, in a deserted park. In December. Nobody will ever see through that, seeing’s people sit around parks watching their breath all the time.” He took his hands out of his pockets to adjust his scarf more closely around his neck. “You’re shivering; let’s take this elsewhere. Coffee shop just up the way.” 

“Starbucks.” Sherlock sneered the word and grimaced with distaste.

“That’s the nature of secret meetings. Gotta go where nobody’d expect you to be.” He began to walk matter-of-factly down the pavement, and Sherlock fell into step beside him. “For future reference, inviting me for coffee might be a better way to ‘just happen into’ your friends. I would also be amenable to watching a match down the pub, or having a meal together.”

“So noted.” It was almost as it had been before, walking and talking together. Comfortable, except the frisson of nerves. How did ordinary people bring up _feelings_? Maybe it would be better just to...no. Even thinking about the possibility of letting this go unexplored made his hands clench into sweaty fists, made his head swim and chest tighten. It needed addressing, now he’d succumbed to the weakness. He sifted through overheard conversations, searching for an opening gambit. Two young ladies at a bus-stop in Prague, close friends from their body language, and the one saying something to the other about a new interest, the conversation flowing freely from a single remark. “John seems nice.” 

“Nice. Right. You’d know. You’ve been spending enough time with him.” There was something odd in Lestrade’s voice, there. Not the jealousy Sherlock might have anticipated; warmer than that, but puzzled, too. 

Before Sherlock could suss it out, they’d arrived and he was holding the door open so Lestrade could enter. The barista was opening flirtatious, and Lestrade ordered and headed to a table while Sherlock collected sugar packets and plastic stir-sticks. He thrust a few extra into his pocket; one never knew what was going to be useful for an experiment. Thankful for the secluded corner table, he considered what to say next. Approaching a witness from an unanticipated angle had served well in the past, gaining valuable insights with minimal digging. Using the same technique in this context felt slightly underhand, but he ignored that. People rarely appreciated directness, particularly in matters of emotion.

“A thing I was wondering, about John. He’s a qualified surgeon, with trauma experience. Why is he doing locum work as a general practitioner? Bit of a step down, isn’t it?” 

“Why not ask him yourself?” Was Lestrade...amused?

“I tried. His reaction was memorable.”

“Gave you a right ticking off, didn’t he?” Definitely amused. 

“Not in so many words. His non-verbal communication skills are formidable, though.”

Lestrade chuckled, sipped his coffee, took a deep breath. “Well. I do know he’d figured on going into emergency medicine when he came home. He was a good soldier, to hear his mates talk, a lot of skills that would’ve been good in A&E,in trauma. Calm and calming, competent, quick to assess a situation and make decisions, usually the right ones. Demanding, expected his orders to be carried out, but not mean about it.” 

Sherlock nodded; this was all in line with what he’d observed. “So why GP? Rather lethally mundane, especially for an adrenaline seeker. Which he clearly is.” The coffee was execrable, and he put the cup down at the side of the table. 

Lestrade sighed and rolled his eyes. “Yeah, he really is. Won’t admit it, though. Anyway, the mundane thing. All he said, the time I asked him, was that he’s seen ‘what that sort of life does to a person’, and he’d rather be ordinary.” 

Sherlock squinted at Lestrade. “That’s ridiculous. First of all, you’d never be enamored of someone that boring. And ordinary? Maybe on the surface, but not to anyone with the wit to actually look.”

Lestrade held up a finger.“Wait a minute. ‘Enamored’? What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“In love with.”

“You think I’m in love with John?”

“Aren’t you? You show many symptoms common to the condition.”

Lestrade sighed, sat back in his chair, tipped his head and considered the ceiling. The baristas were refilling the milk fridge, joking together about some celebrity scandal. Traffic continued to crawl past the windows, a few pedestrians huddled into their coats. Finally, Lestrade met Sherlock’s eyes, and said, “Funny, I’d have said the same thing about you, with him. Can’t resent it, either, even if maybe I ought to. You’re different, now you’re spending so much time with him.” Lestrade’s voice was warm with approval, but Sherlock bristled.

“Are you saying he’s made me a _better person_?”

“Where’d you learn to do air quotes, anyway?” Lestrade snorted, then continued more seriously, “I’m saying he makes you _want to be_ a better person. Totally different thing. He’s good for you.” He gazed out the window, suddenly looking old and tired. “You’re good for him, too. He’s so alive when you’ve been together.” His voice was a bare whisper, as if he’d not meant to speak out loud. “The way he lights up when you’ve been dragging him through back alleys and what-all? It’s beautiful. I could so easily fall in love with him, then. And you, all glowing from his praise, trying so hard to not be afraid of caring. I could love you, too, then.” 

“Could...or do?” 

“That’s not a fair question, Sherlock. Not a fair answer, either. To any of us.”

The world went still. “What if it could be? There are...arrangements. That might suit.”

“Arrangements?”

“Non-monogamous relationship configurations. If you could love either of us, why not love both?”

Greg jerked, looking as if Sherlock had struck him a physical blow rather than suggesting the only logical solution to their situation. His eyes narrowed, searching Sherlock’s face for something. Apparently he found it, because he nodded and sat back, facing Sherlock squarely. “You’re suggesting a polyamorous agreement?”

Sherlock nodded, greatly relieved. “I’m glad you follow me. I’m sure John will agree that it’s the only logical solution; should we call him now?” 

“Just hang on a minute. Never mind John, _I_ haven’t agreed. Just. Right, look. It’s not like I haven’t seen things in this job. But here’s the thing, see. Last one of these I saw, it went wrong. Badly. Mostly because partner number one tried to bring in number three under false pretenses; partner two resented the hell out of it when he figured out they’d already been involved for a couple years, under the radar.” 

Sherlock opened his mouth to refute any similarities between what he was suggesting and attempted infidelity conversion, but Lestrade wasn’t letting him argue just yet. 

“No, let me finish. It got me thinking, ya’ know? Asked a couple folks I know, psych types we’ve had in as consultants, if they’d ever seen it work.” He shrugged. “Guess it sorta grabbed at me, the idea of it. Who’s to say we can’t love more than one? So yeah, it’s not something I’m actually opposed to. But. Those psychs I asked? They spelled it out pretty hard. There’s gotta be rules, and the first rule is communication. John’s not great at talking about feelings, but compared to you? He’s an open book.” 

“That can be negotiated, surely.” 

“It won’t be easy.” 

“Nothing worthwhile is easy. Mindless platitude, but surprisingly apt in this case.” 

“You really mean that.” Lestrade pursed his lips consideringly. “Fair enough, but I think you’d better let me bring it up to John. He’s a bit more old-fashioned than you might expect. Not that I think he’ll be opposed, exactly, just that he’s rather attached to fitting in.” 

“Being ordinary. He isn’t, though. Why does he want to appear so?” 

“For the same reason you pretend not to care. People are cruel, and he doesn’t want to get hurt.” 

“You’ll have to convince him that he won’t be.” 

Lestrade smirked, confident for the first time all night. “Nope. I can absolutely guarantee that he will be. We all will be. But we’ll be stronger for it, after. I, for one, am convinced it’s worth it. Are you?" 

Sherlock didn’t hesitate. “Yes. Absolutely.” 

“Great. Then I’ll talk to John.” 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John needs advice.

“Look, just think about it, yeah?” Greg wasn’t pleading, John had to give him that. He’d been matter-of-fact about the whole crazy thing, answering John’s questions where he could and offering a list of websites that weren’t ‘utter shite’ on the topic. 

“Yeah, okay.” He clicked the pen a couple times, scratched a rough outline of the rod of aesculapius onto the list of references.

Greg nodded. “Call you in a few days?” 

“I’m off from Thursday.” John felt a pang of remorse that Greg wasn’t pushing for the regular movie night, even though that would’ve been a whole new level of awkward with this sitting between them. 

“’kay. Talk to you then. Or before, if. Well. If. Sherlock, too, if you, I dunno, need to ask...anything. Whatever.” Greg visibly checked himself and pulled on his coat, then raised a hand in farewell before exiting the flat. John resisted the urge to go to the window and watch him leave, rejected the notion that it would be the last time he saw his friend. But this proposal felt very much like an all-or-nothing deal. 

John had heard of such things, of course. He’d not given it a lot of thought, because he’d never have even considered entering into such an agreement. He wasn’t repulsed by the idea, which Greg had taken as a positive sign but could just mean he didn’t have enough information. Time to do some research. He collected his laptop from the bedroom and set up in front of the television, with some inane program for background noise. For the next several hours, he did his own searches as well as checking the websites Greg had suggested. The information was fascinating, enlightening, focusing heavily on the emotional aspects rather than the sexual. Jealousy was a regular topic, as he’d suspected it would be. He wasn’t too sure about the ‘inner child’ stuff, but quite liked knowing there was a word for what he’d felt watching the interactions between Greg and Sherlock. _Compersion_. It was a good word to take to bed; tomorrow would begin all too soon.

He spent the next days pondering the situation in between patients. By Wednesday he was in an abstracted haze, turning over the different permutations and questions and possible pitfalls, swinging wildly from ‘yes, this is what I want, both of them, God yes’ and ‘there is no possible way this would work, my God, no’. The vision of sharing pizza and a pint with Greg after chasing Sherlock through the back alleys and secret lanes of London warred with a vision of the three of them sitting around a coffee table talking uncomfortably about how everyone was feeling. Or not talking, more likely. Staring at each other, waiting for someone else to get things rolling, until they all gave up. Then all the little hurts and angers would fester, eventually poisoning the relationship. Greg would start working longer hours; Sherlock would look for cases that took him out of town. John would skip the pizza, drink the beer, and fall into his bed only when he couldn’t stay awake any longer. 

Clearly, this wasn’t going to work. He’d call Greg, tell him he was stepping back, letting them be together. He‘d join MSF. By the time he got back, Greg and Sherlock would be solidly together and maybe they could all go back to being friends. Of course, by the time he got back Sherlock would likely have chased one suspect too many down one dark alley too many, and Greg would again be the grieving partner left tragically behind. So maybe it would be better to look for work someplace not too far away; Wales, maybe. They could skype, see each other now and then. He’d be available for when Sherlock inevitably got himself killed. Or injured. Greg would call John, ask for his expert opinion on what the doctors were suggesting. He’d come home, help them through the recovery...Christ. Then they’d all be right back where he’d started, in this liminal place where everyone was more than a friend, and not quite a lover. The nurse buzzed him his next appointment, and John turned his attention firmly to throat swabs and ingrown toenails. Far easier to diagnose and treat. 

At noon, he poked his head into the reception area. “Anywhere I can get a coffee before my next?” He noted that the waiting room was heavily populated and spared a thought for the sandwich in his bag. It looked like it would stay there. Natalie, the receptionist, grinned and slipped out from her station. 

“Just back here…” She led him to the tiny office set aside for staff breaks. His eye was caught by her necklace; a glass tile bearing a red heart with an infinity symbol superimposed over it. Until last night, he’d have simply assumed it meant ‘endless love’, or something of that nature, but now he recognized it as a symbol that signified polyamory. Endless love, yes, but with a very different connotation. 

“Your necklace…” he wasn’t sure how to ask what he wanted to know. “I recognize it. It stands for polyamory, doesn’t it?” 

“It does. I’m impressed; not too many people know what it means. Are you?”

“No, no. Well. Not...um.” He busied himself with the paper cup, stirring in sugar he didn’t want in the interest of keeping the conversation going. Fortunately, she seemed inclined to be helpful.

“‘Not yet’? ‘Not quite’? Or just, ‘not sure’?” 

“‘Not sure’ covers it. Trying to figure it all out, actually. Bit outside my experience.” 

Natalie nodded. “That’s where most of us start out. Tell you what, how about we have dinner after work? I don’t think you’re going to get much more than coffee, today. I certainly won’t. I’ll answer your questions as best I can. Websites can only do so much.”  
John nodded, mustered up a weak grin. “That’d be good. My treat, then. Since you’re doing me a favor.”

~*~

John had finished the last of his paperwork and was staring at a blank notebook page when Natalie stuck her head in the doorway. “You still up for dinner?”

Snapping back to reality was nearly a physical jolt. “Yeah, absolutely. I was just trying to write down some things. I guess I didn’t get very far.” The notebook slipped easily into the messenger bag Greg had given him at his last birthday. “Where to? You probably know the area better than I do.” 

She pursed her lips consideringly. “There’s a nice little sandwich shop a couple blocks up. It’s quiet, so we can talk, and not so busy they’ll be hurrying us along. Food’s decent, too.”

“That’s perfect.” He slung the bag over his shoulder, and held the glass door for her to exit. “Tell me about your family, while we walk?”

When the door had closed and locked behind them, Natalie began to speak. “Well, there’s me. And there’s Edmund, who was seeing Gerald when I met them. Edmund’s a programmer, does web design and things like that. I don’t always understand it, but he’s very good at what he does. Gerald’s in graphic design. Right now he’s working for an ad agency, and he hates it. Wants to go freelance, but finding enough clients to support himself is pretty tough. If I move into their place, that’d ease up some of the financial pressure, but...well, it’s not enough if that’s the only reason. Anyway, we’ve been together for about four years now.”

“All three of you?” 

“Mmm, yeah, although that’s not always how it works. Some polys are in V relationships, or other configurations. But I’m sure you read that; you’re after less basic and more practical information, I bet.” She dodged a group of teens running to catch a bus, jogged a few steps to catch up. “How about you tell me your situation, and we’ll see what questions pop up?” 

It was as good an approach as any. John was only a few moments into a bare-bones outline of the facts, when she broke in, “Sherlock? As in, Sherlock Holmes?” 

“God, don’t tell me you’re a fan. He hates those. He’d never forgive me.” Really, she’d seemed more level-headed than that. 

Her laugh was delightful. “No, not a fan. My sister was, kept believing in him even after he died. Actually threw a party when his name was cleared. If you don’t mind me saying so, though, I never would’ve thought he’d be relationship material. He’s always so acerbic on telly. Is that just an act?”

The hot, salty scent of chips floated down the pavement; John could see a bright blue awning about a block up. He adjusted the strap of his bag and plunged his hands back into his pockets, wishing he’d for once just remember his damn gloves. “Well, it’s not so much an act as, just, well. He tends to be prickly with most folks, and I think crowds make him nervous. When they’re all looking at him, I mean. Which is funny, given that he’s such a huge drama queen. Loves attention, just...not so much of it all at once, I guess. The rest of it, though, that’s real. I thought it was some sort of trick at first, but he really is just that brilliant.” He opened the door for her, looked over the scatter of tables and mismatched chairs. There was a small table toward the front, isolated from the rest by the L shaped entryway. He guided Natalie to it, suddenly aware of how hungry he was. 

“They do a good Reuben, if you’re into that sort of thing. Otherwise, the Chorizo roll is my favorite.” Natalie pointed out her suggestions on the paper menu. 

After they’d ordered and the drinks were delivered, Natalie prompted, “You were telling me about your guys. Sherlock’s a drama queen. What does Greg bring to the table?”

“He’s sensible. I like a bit of action, and Sherlock’s just always buzzing with energy. Greg sort of...smoothes that all out. Sherlock tends to get a clever idea and run with it. When he’s wrong, that’s why. Greg, he thinks things through. Like, I don’t know, if there was a door we needed to get through? Sherlock would whip out his lock picks.”

“And you? I’m guessing you’re not the lock-pick type, even if you do have surgeon’s hands.” 

“Um, no. I’d probably kick it down.” Natalie didn’t seem put off by this admission. “But Greg would stop us both, make us wait while he checked to see if it was even locked.”

“Smart, Strong, Sensible.” She slid a manicured finger over the laminate tabletop, outlining a triangle shape. “Sounds like a good mix. So, how did you end up considering poly?” 

“Sherlock’s suggestion, but Greg’s right on board with it. He talked to me, and now they’re waiting while I have a think.” He plucked the lime from his glass, watched the juice disperse through the sparkling water. 

“And you’ve done some research, and now you have questions that the websites didn’t address.”

“It seems like the sort of thing you can’t bring a lot of baggage into. But nobody gets to be our ages, without baggage. Without scars.” 

“You’re right. It’s unreasonable to expect anyone, of any age, to come to any sort of relationship without histories. What you’ve got to be willing to do, is unpack them. Frequently. Repeatedly. Because nobody is a mind reader, it’s all got to be on the table, acknowledged, addressed. You need to be willing to work on your own issues. It’s a lot of deep listening and honesty.” 

“I quit therapy over that sort of thing.”

“Eh. Therapy with a stranger, or working it out with the ones you love best. Hard work either way, but I know which one feels safer. Hardest part? Everyone’s got to be the bad guy sometime. Gerald has to be allowed to say ‘Hey, Nat, cool it. You’re doing that thing’.” I have to trust him enough to let him, and he has to trust that I’m going to be okay with it.” 

The server brought their meals over, and they fell into a surprisingly companionable silence while they ate, watching the television over the bar or the people walking past outside. 

Once they’d answered the immediate demands of a long day and no lunch, he asked, “How do you...I mean, I couldn’t find anything about living arrangements, or what the ground rules are. And I’m pretty sure it’s not a thing to do on a trial basis. Too important to be taken that lightly.” 

Natalie set down the uneaten bit of sandwich, finished her coke. “Do you want to know what I see, John?” 

No. Not exactly. Or maybe just not entirely; there was that honesty piece. It probably counted if he was honest with himself, admitted his anxiety in the silence of his own head, and faced up to it anyway. “Okay, then. What do you see?” Oops. He hadn’t really meant to sound confrontational. But the woman across from him quirked her eyebrows, as if his borderline hostile response had confirmed something.

“I see a man who is asking all the right questions. You didn’t open with ‘what about sex’, you asked about emotional intimacy. Just now, you accepted your fear -I’d love to play cards with you, I’d never lose- and moved forward anyway. So you’ve got some of the skills, and a lot of the courage. You’ve accepted that you want this, but...you’re looking for some sort of checklist, a rulebook, to tell you what’s the accepted way to do it. You want to be sure you’re ‘normal’. But it’s not like that. The only ‘normal’ is that everyone has to decide for themselves how it’s going to work. Which isn’t that different from a traditional monogamous partnership, when you get right down to it. Just more participants in the decision making.” 

The way she’d broken down the conversation reminded him of Sherlock, her contralto voice some octaves higher but every bit as throaty. She had a lovely smile, sweet and soft. The old John would probably have asked her out for dinner. Now, though, he preferred a smile that was equal part mischief and mirth, over a firm and stubbled chin. 

“You’re saying I’m already normal.”

“I’m saying there’s no such thing.”

“You think I should agree. Even though it could all fall apart, and end with everyone getting hurt.” 

“It’s not for me to say what you should do. And you’re right, it could fall apart. It could be a horrific, messy breakup. But guess what? Those happen to ‘normal’ couples every damn day. Mark, the doctor you filled in for, had the day off to go to family court and get his visitation rights enforced. There’s no guaranteed happily ever after for anyone. But you’ve got a better chance at it, if you’re with the one -or ones- you really want.” 

The server came over with the bill while John was pondering what she’d said. He handed over his card and sat, staring unseeing at the table, until it was returned. Only after he’d signed and received his copy of the slip did he return Natalie’s look. “You’ve given me a lot to think about.”

“Do me a favor?”

“Sure, yeah. What?” 

She pulled a little metal case from her purse, that turned out to contain a notebook and pen that she used to write down her e-mail address. “Stay in touch. Let me know what you decide.” 

He stuck the paper in his pocket, offered her a handshake. “I’ll do that.” He had the feeling he was going to need her advice in the coming weeks.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Decisions are made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are, at the end of the tale. I really want to thank every one of you who has read along, and subscribed, and commented. 
> 
> YoursTruly, I hope this lives up to your wishes. 
> 
> And for LonghornLetters, who kept me going, should you ever find yourself in the frozen north, there's a homebrew or two with your name on 'em.
> 
> (Anyone who picks up on the inspiration for the title...big points!)

“Has he called you yet? Texted? E-mailed?” 

“Sherlock.” Greg sighed, poked at a mushroom with one chopstick. “No. He hasn’t. And we’re both involved here, yeah? He’s as likely to contact you as me.” He held the fungus up and squinted at it. “Are you sure this is a shiitake? It doesn’t look like a shiitake to me.” 

“Crimini is an acceptable, if uncommon, substitution. Similar in texture, color, and flavor.” Sherlock reached out with his own chopsticks and snagged the item in question, popping it into his mouth with a flourish. “There. Now you needn’t worry. Besides, the Death Cap Cutie is still incarcerated.” 

Greg snorted, even as he wondered what the hell was wrong with people that they gave poisoners such ridiculous diminutives. “That was stew, not lo-mein.” For which he had been shamefully grateful; he didn’t particularly care for stew anyway, so being put off it wasn’t a hardship. “Anyway, John will be in touch. He wanted time. Yesterday was his first day off; if I don’t hear from him tomorrow, I’ll call him on Sunday.” He hit Sherlock with his best ‘do it or else’ glare, and added, “I expect you to leave him alone.” 

“You’ve just suggested he might call me first. Should I ignore that if it happens?” 

“Smart arse. No. If he calls you first, I expect you to be calm...no, that’s unlikely, isn’t it. Just, don’t push.” Silently, he admonished himself to follow the same directive. Sherlock’s impatience was forgivable, he even shared it somewhat, but someone had to be the voice of reason. He suspected, if things went the way he hoped, that ‘voice of reason’ was going to fall to him more often than the other two. What was he thinking, considering getting involved with an impetuous madman _and_ an adrenaline junkie? Not just considering, but really wanting to? Utterly bonkers, and how he’d ever get on at work if people found out...well, that was a worry for later. If John agreed. If, having reached an understanding, they were able to hammer out an actual functional relationship. For a given value of functional, he thought, watching Sherlock tip a plate with dabs of sauce on it, studying the different flow rates and nodding thoughtfully. He began carefully counting out grains of rice, depositing them at the top of each sample and watching how they stuck or slid. When both of their mobiles chimed incoming messages, he dropped the whole experiment with a crash and jumped up to retrieve his phone from the kitchen.

Greg had barely fished his own mobile out of his pocket when Sherlock whirled, eyes wide and free hand coming up to scrub at his neck. “He’s...he wants...it’s John. He wants to meet with us. Tomorrow.” 

The message on Greg’s screen matched what Sherlock had said, and Greg frowned consideringly at the other man, who had begun pacing rapidly through Greg’s flat. Right. Short of drugging one or both of them, there was going to be no peace tonight. Unless… he began thumbing a reply, painstakingly spelling out each word and reading it back to himself to be certain his meaning was clear without being bossy and controlling. Then he deleted it, and started over. To hell with bossy; dragging it out was neither necessary nor fair. 

_We’re both at mine. Come over now._

The reply was almost immediate, and came not in the form of a text message but from the buzzing of the intercom. Sherlock stumbled to a stop, staring at the speaker as if it were a bomb about to go off. Scratch that, Greg thought. Sherlock had faced down explosives with more aplomb. 

“John. He’s here. You invited him now.” The sleeves of his white shirt had been rolled to his elbows for the meal, but he was unrolling them now, casting his eyes about for his jacket. By the time Greg had pressed the buzzer, he’d pulled himself together and was once again the untouchable figure he so strove to project. Their eyes met, Greg raising an eyebrow and receiving a decisive nod. He began to gather up the boxes and stash them away. John had done the same thing, he remembered, the night Sherlock’s return was announced. He was just wiping up the remnants of Sherlock’s viscosity experiment when John knocked on the door, and Sherlock followed Greg’s head tilt, admitting an awkward and hesitant John Watson. 

“So, yeah. Um...I was in the neighborhood?”, he tried with a rueful grin. 

“Tea?” The kettle sloshed when Greg shook it questioningly. At John’s grateful nod, he said, “Go on through, then. Sitting room’ll be more comfortable.” Sherlock watched him go, then turned to Greg with a triumphant smile. “He’s going to agree. He’s fidgeting with his hands; nervous. But his stride, his stance, those say confidence, not resignation.”

“He’s also right there in the other room, and won’t like you whispering about him. Get the mugs, or get out of my kitchen.” Greg didn’t doubt Sherlock’s analysis of John’s body language. It seemed a bit disrespectful, though, for him to share his conclusions instead of letting John say his piece. Something to add to the ground rules? Probably. He envied Sherlock his relief, his blissful ignorance of how much work they were in for now. Would they ever be done with the ‘hard part’?

*~*

Some hours later, Greg handed the printed rules list around to his boyfriends and wondered if anyone else, upon agreeing to a relationship, felt quite so much like a primary teacher? “Right, so, this is the working agreement. Renegotiation is not just allowed, but expected, and weekly check-ins are required for the first eight weeks.” 

“Yes, yes, fine. We were all right here in the room, I think we know what the expectations are.” 

John pointed a chastising finger at Sherlock. “Nope. You don’t get to be that way. This isn’t just important, it’s critical. Printed lists and all.”

“It’s childish.” 

“You’d know.”

“Are we really going to have our first fight right now? Because I was thinking maybe a movie, myself.” A laugh ripped out of him when their indignant glares were aimed at him instead of each other. “God, you two are going to be work.” The strange thing, the frightening and delightful thing, was how much he looked forward to it. “Come on. Sherlock’s pick. Our first official date, yeah? Let’s make it a good ‘un.” 

Later, Greg reflected that cold chinese food and a documentary about bog bodies probably wouldn’t make anyone’s ‘top date ideas’ list, even if it was completely perfect for the three of them.

*~*

It was raining the day Greg Lestrade took Sherlock Holmes and John Watson as his long-term partners. They had faithfully gotten together, at one flat or another, to discuss what was working, what wasn’t, and what they thought ought to change. Greg didn’t mind the rain so much, not when there was a cozy fire and hot drinks all around. Not when he could watch John and Sherlock quibble about laptop ownership while he layered lasagna noodles and meat sauce into the pan and football mumbled happily on the television. He sprinkled the last of the cheese over the top, covered the whole thing with foil, and slipped it into the oven. Time to talk, then. He nodded them both over to the table, muted the television until John glared him into shutting it completely down. 

It was Sherlock’s landlady who had presented them with the topic of tonight’s discussion.  
Mrs Hudson was, to date, the only person who knew the nature of their relationship. After catching them in the rather lengthy ritual of kissing everyone goodbye, she’d just tutted, said something about it having taken them long enough, and presented Sherlock with a proposed rental arrangement that would let them have 221B and 221C at a very nice combined rate. “So we can all have our own space, she said, but not spend so much time traveling all over town.” 

“Yeah, no. Or at least, not yet.” John was firm, which lent Greg’s own refusal a bit of strength. “For one thing, I’ve still got four months on my current place. And for another, I don’t think I’m quite there yet.” 

“You could have the downstairs unit. It would be just like having your own flat, but closer. And with baked goods, and Speedy’s right next door. And no Mr Pho, whistling while you’re trying to pair socks.”

“Sherlock, I love you, but that’s the most ridiculous reason to move in together that I have ever heard. Honestly, do you even listen to yourself?” 

Greg had been required to step in at that point, saying to John, “Do you?” while Sherlock stood, silent and unblinking in shocked confusion.

“Do I what?” 

They spoke simultaneously: “Listen to yourself,” and “Love me”, and John could only grimace with amused chagrin and answer Sherlock’s disbelieving query. 

“Yeah. ‘Course I do. Both of you, since it’s come up.” There was a break in the conversation then, hugging and being hugged which led in due course to kissing and being kissed. When they’d all settled down, John picked the conversation back up. “Right. So. Sherlock, I’m not ready to live together with either or both of you. Yet.”

“I under...well, no. I don’t understand, but I will respect that decision,” Sherlock said softly. 

“But I would be willing to revisit the idea in, say, two more months? That’s when I need to decide what to do with my flat. Does that work for the two of you?” 

He’d been staring at the floor, but now Sherlock gave Greg a sidelong look, waiting for his response before daring to react. 

“That sounds reasonable.” 

Sherlock nodded distractedly, then glanced from one to the other worriedly. “If you won’t move in -yes, fine, won’t move in _yet_ \- may I ask a question?” He waited until they’d both gestured their assent. “I would like to know how long you foresee this arrangement lasting? You are both maddeningly difficult to read where matters of our attachment are involved.”

There was a pang, a sweet terrifying rush through his veins. Greg had not wanted to frighten anyone by making premature declarations, but his decision had been made practically from the day John agreed. If this didn’t work, it wasn’t going to be through Greg’s lack of commitment. It seemed though, that at least one partner needed the reassurance of a specific and intentional statement. Both of them, if John’s wide eyes meant anything. Well, John had stepped up to his own statement. Greg couldn’t do less, not if he was to be the man they deserved.

Still, it took a couple of throat clearings and some deep breaths for him to be able to speak. “I love both of you, so much it’s absolutely terrifying. I don’t have any fancy words, but I’m in for keeps. However it works out; all of us in one flat together, or not, we’re all in a life together, and that’s what I want.” 

John blew out a nervous, stuttering breath, nodded his agreement. “For keeps.” He sank into the broken down red armchair. “It took me awhile to come ‘round to it, but I’m here now and I’m not going anywhere. It’s good, what we’ve got.”

The hope that spread slowly over Sherlock’s features, the relieved sigh that was so deep it was almost a moan, made words superfluous. Still, Greg was glad to have them. Grateful that Sherlock was willing to speak them, confirming out loud their mutual dedication.

“For keeps.”


End file.
